


Viper

by dashielldeveron



Category: British Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), tom holland - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Lawyer!reader - Freeform, Mob AU, Pining, Secret Identities, Slow Burn, Violence, but in an emotionally constipated way, lawyer reader, mob!tom, mob!tom au, mob!tom holland, political writer!reader, reader likes anonymity, slooooooooow burn oh my god, swears, tags to be edited as it goes on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2019-07-27 21:06:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16227323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashielldeveron/pseuds/dashielldeveron
Summary: Viper AU: a Mob!Tom Holland AU in which you are a political author, Tom’s personal lawyer, and eventually his consigliere.Warnings: violence, swears, the law.An ongoing AU of you working for the mob tirelessly out of your innate sense of justice and thirst for the mob boss.





	1. A Prologue in Venom

**Author's Note:**

> You have an incredible mentor who is pushing you down a path of crime in order to do the right thing. Your mentor forgot 1) to mention that your new employer is so fucking charismatic and 2) that you’re a dramatic little bitch.

_From: Tracey Prine_

_To: epiales@epiales.com_

_Subject: article attached_

_Thought you might want to see this. You’ve made the papers for your real job for once, although your name still isn’t mentioned—but I expect you enjoy that. It’s all over the news stations, and NPR is currently airing the story. Congratulations. There’s a nice quotation from Polson near the bottom that you’ll get a kick out of._

_Additionally, I’m going to need your piece on the refugee crisis within twelve hours if it’s going to be published this week._

_Thanks,_

_t._

_[attachment]_

 

**_FALSELY ACCUSED, JULIA LAURENS ACQUITTED_ **

_In the late afternoon of October 17, the protracted trial of Julia Laurens came to a sudden end in light of new evidence. Laurens, on trial for the murder of Moira Herrington, daughter of celebrated actors Jay and Melissa Herrington, walks as an innocent woman this morning._

_As Moira’s violin teacher, Laurens would have had access to the Herrington residence during lessons on Mondays, but, it turns out, she was not the only one. It seemed like an open-and-shut case when Moira’s body, dismembered, was found in various black bags in Laurens’s garbage bins, along with the ice pick used to gouge out Moira’s eyes under the seat in Laurens’s vehicle on the day Laurens was stopped on the route from the Herrington residence. Laurens had said that she had driven to the lesson without being able to find Moira and was returning home, but the body had already been discovered._

_However, as the defence exposed, all supposed evidence was a plant by perpetrator Johnson Mays, a colleague of Laurens who had a secret, unhealthy obsession with the underage Moira. Mays, a mechanic, had attended the weekly game night at Laurens’s apartment on Sunday and had sabotaged Laurens’s car and planted an ice pick similar to the one used. With this setup, Mays would have time to commit the murder during the scheduled violin lesson, while Laurens would have to attend to her car._

You kicked your feet up on the coffee table and flicked through the article. Fucking yes. You’d made national news for being a lawyer, for once. You were the one who’d done the intricate research to discover Mays’s connections, and when Dr. Prine gave you leave, you had driven upstate to investigate Mays’s house under warrant, posing as a general lackey. You had felt the need to see his place with your own eyes, and you had struck gold: not only had you found the real ice pick in his wood pile, but you had found one of Moira’s contacts stuck to the back of his freezer. Her fucking _contact._ When the lab reports came back, complete with the drop of blood on the ice pick matching Moira’s, you forwarded everything to Dr. Prine, and she sent it to her attorney acting defence in the trial. Mays wasn’t even a player in the game before you, and now the rightful murderer was going to jail. An innocent woman walks free because of you.

 

Justice felt fantastic. Your work being in the national headlines felt a little better.

 

You scanned the rest of the article until you reached the quotation Dr. Prine had told you about.

 

_…Out of the clamouring press following the trial, only this was squeezed from a fuming Prosecutor James Polson: “I [redacted] had them. Whoever dug up the dirt on Mays, they’re a [redacted] viper, sinking their fangs into the status quo and letting their venom spread.”_

 

Grinning, you took another bite of Ben and Jerry’s, straight out of the carton. Dr. Prine was right. You were going to have to find a hard copy of the _Times_ so that you could post this on your bedroom wall. You had to bite your lip you were smiling so hard.

 

You set your ice cream on the coffee table and lay back on the couch to compose a response to Dr. Prine, but you called her instead. As your phone rang, you kicked back and stared at the ceiling fan, its pull making small circles as the blades spun.

 

“Dr. Prine,” you said when she picked up, “Holy fuck! _Holy_ fuck!”

 

“Congratulations,” she said, her smile coming through over the phone, “I’m proud of you. You did some really solid work.”

 

“I didn’t think this would happen! I saved someone’s life! Julia Laurens can go to _fucking_ Hobby Lobby, and no one will accost her. It’s my fault, and she doesn’t even _know_ me,” you said, sitting up to grab your ice cream again.

 

“Isn’t that what you wanted?”

 

“Well, yeah,” you said thickly through a chunk of frozen brownie, “It is. I wish I could tell my mother, though, but it’s not that big of a deal.”

 

“Is she still doing all right?”

 

You swallowed, choking a bit to get it down. “Yeah. How’s work for you?”

 

“The freshman students write the worst papers I’ve ever seen,” said Dr. Prine with a clattering in the background, “Damn, I just—hold on. Dropped the binders.” A door creaked shut on her end, and Dr. Prine spoke more loudly after. “I miss your work. It was nice grading it, since I didn’t have to mark it up much. These kids can’t even handle a mock trial yet. I worry for your generation.”

 

“Don’t worry. We’re all just tired,” you said, “Speaking of my work, I’ve almost finished the refugee piece. Once I get a solid closing statement, I’ll send it your way.”

 

“Well, don’t procrastinate. Your deadline’s soon. You got anything lined up this evening?”

 

Scrunching your eyes shut, you winced. “Don’t remind me. Polson’s got me doing menial work again. Something totally useless with spreadsheets and the expenses of the fucking break room and secretarial offices. If he knew what I was capable of—”

 

“If he knew you worked against him in the Laurens trial? I know,” said Dr. Prine, her voice softening, “I’ve been meaning to tell you something. It’s your ticket out of Polson’s firm. I’ve found a place where your talents would be… _much_ more appreciated. You could start within the week.”

 

“Say more right now.”

 

***

 

2,132.

 

2,132 rejections via mass email, starting in your second year of law school. All from different firms that didn’t want you. Rounds upon rounds of interviews, competing with your friends and total strangers who held themselves like they were Croesus, reaching the final interview, only to get rejection emails three days later from firms you would have quite literally killed people to work for. Years of working for and studying under Dr. Prine, editing her national law journal, diligently dotting the _i_ s of her excruciating cases late into the night. Getting a taste of the allure of wealth and entrenched power, and never having it want you outside of the knowledge that you were her student. All of it—from the cases you and she never could crack and stood outside in the rain pulling your hair out over, to the parts of your life you missed out on, like your best friend’s wedding and your mother’s last birthday before you started growing apart—leading up to this: walking into a high-rise building with mirror-like windows in the middle of Manhattan and staring up at an embossed, brass nameplate on a door that read _Harrison Osterfield_.

 

The next chapter in your life, and it sank like a stone in your stomach. You raised your fist to knock, but before you could, someone snatched it away.

 

“Ripley,” said the bony man maybe a decade older than you, pulling on his collar and dropping your hand, “and you’re not getting my first name. We’ve got to get upstairs before they see you. No time to lose. I’m the lawyer you’re replacing.”

 

Glancing back at Osterfield’s door, you followed behind Ripley up a few floors (the elevator was too risky, he told you.) and into a crusty, windowless office with water damage dripping in a back corner. After closing the door, he sat in one of the two chairs in front of the desk (one leg was propped up by a book) and gestured for you to do the same.

 

“You’re Dr. Prine’s student, aren’t you?”

 

“I am,” you said, sinking into the leather, “She also told me that you’d be waiting for me, but considering this business belongs to a Mr. Thomas Holland, one would think I’d be meeting him on my first day.”

 

Ripley pulled a leg into his lap, resting one ankle on the opposite knee. “With any luck, you won’t have any direct interactions with him. Nasty man in a nasty business.”

 

“Being in an IT consulting company can’t be that bad,” you said, head snapping towards a bucket against the wall once water dripped into it from the ceiling. “What’s with the, uh…?” You nodded your head towards the leak.

 

“They shoved me down here while the real office is getting renovated, or so they say. Doesn’t matter,” said Ripley, “You and I have a lot of work to do. You’re one of Dr. Prine’s. So am I. They’re working me to death here, and apparently you’re a masochistic workaholic. I need to get out, and this is—well, what we’re about to do is going to be easiest for everyone in this room.”

 

You tapped your fingers against the split leather, each landing with a dull _thum_. “Why do I get the feeling this is going to be needlessly complicated?”

 

“Please, trust me, or at least trust Dr. Prine,” he said, untwisting the cap of a nalgene from his desk, “It was her idea. I can call her up, if you want.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

 

Shaking your head, you said, “I’ve already seen your credentials. Dr. Prine gave me more information on you than I need to know, _Jerome Ripley._ I know you’re trustworthy. What’s the plan?”

 

“I hear you’re into anonymity.”

 

You always were a dramatic little bitch, so you agreed to the plan: you and Ripley would collaborate on the job until you knew much more of the rope of Osseous Enterprises, and Ripley would fade out as you took on the job by yourself. The plan was sketchy, and everything reeked of ulterior motives. You found yourself addressing stranger and stranger things sent to you in the emails (a lousy lawyer@osseous, how lame) right up until you opened an email from Holland before Ripley could get to it.

 

Inside were photographs of a human skeleton with the flesh freshly ripped off of it, and _that_ lay to the side of the bones. _Boss shot him through the neck_ , it was labelled, _Had me skin it. Wants you to send it along to H. Jones in Queens and cover the death. Victim lived in_ … And then addresses, social security, et al.

 

You were supposed to cover up a murder. A murder committed by—oh, um. Hm. You didn’t sign up for this.

 

Ripley walked into the office right as Dr. Prine picked up on your phone call, and he slapped the phone out of your hands.

 

Both of them talked you through. The mafia. You were working for the _mafia_. Not the whole thing, obviously, but you were working for the most prestigious mob family in—fuck, they covered multiple countries, but their base was right here in New York, in the very fucking building you’d been working in for a month—oh, fuck. Were _you_ in the mob? No, you had to be inducted, and to be inducted, you had to be trusted, or at least, even fucking noticed. Osseous Enterprises was a front corporation for Holland’s dealings in the mob, even though it made a lot of money—but _significantly_ less than what was officially recorded. No wonder Ripley was taking certain tasks. He was easing you into it, letting you deal with the surface level shit before you really knew what you were getting into (an aside: this explained why Dr. Prine seemingly sent you to work in business when you specialised in criminal law).

 

It took hours and hours of skype calls with Dr. Prine and talking with Ripley outside of work to convince you to stay. Dr. Prine appealed to your better nature, damn it, and talked about how even though Holland worked selfishly, he confronted people and solved problems the government was too scared to commit to. All she had to do was talk up your innate sense of justice, and you started changing your mind, albeit with extreme reluctance, especially with the threat of returning to Polson’s firm. Not to mention your first paycheque had your head spinning, and that didn’t hurt your cause.

 

So, you worked for the mob, and no one knew you did, not even the mob. If Holland knew Ripley were leaving, Ripley would have a knife in his back within the next minute. It was safer for Ripley to phase out, with you proving your worth secretly, until you deemed it time to reveal yourself, _after_ Ripley left.

 

“It’d be odd if all areas of your life were perfect in tandem,” Dr. Prine would remind you, and you’d affectionately flip her off and get back to writing your next Epiales piece. Deadlines were always too soon.

 

***

 

The Epiales project was the only thing going for you right now, aside from the sudden income from Holland. It began your final semester of law school, when you shouldn’t have been taking on anything new at all. You had written, quite frankly, a fucking astonishing article on modern feminism as it functions in the government and in law, and Dr. Prine had featured it in her law journal. You hadn’t wanted recognition, because your views differed drastically from your family’s, and you didn’t want your peers making fun of you, either. You’d decided on _Epiales_ as your penname, because, even though you wanted to follow in the footsteps of political authors throughout history, you couldn’t find a Greek philosopher whose views you agreed with. So, you went with the personification of nightmares, just because it’d be your family’s worst nightmare if they knew you were this politically different from them.

 

Just as a joke.

 

But then, the _New York Times_ had bought your article from Dr. Prine and published it on the front page. Eventually, through repetitions of this and an endless string of emails, you had a monthly feature in the fucking _New York Times_ , so long as the article was original to their newspaper and not a republished one from the law journal. They conceded to your continued posting to the Epiales website on the basis that you posted online after they began selling that day’s edition. You didn’t care. You were in the _New York Times_ , for Christ’s sake.

 

And no one knew it was you. You were completely safe, from hecklers, from your family, from disgusting men threatening to ruin your life and/or end it. You had taken too many precautions. Hell, if someone tried to trace your IP address, it’d relocate to the middle of a sulphur pit in Yellowstone.

 

Through a series of accidents, you garnered respect.

 

***

 

The day you should have been waiting for comments to roll in for your latest instalment on the refugee crisis, Tom Holland needed his lawyer present at a tennis match in the Hamptons. Holland intended to ensure political ties with Senator Hernandez, whose daughter was playing in the tennis tournament. A sizable crowd at a public outing, all distracted and getting steadily drunk? Holland could make his move easily.

 

Thus there you stood under the scant shade of a pine tree in the ninety-seven-degree heat, sweating through your jet-black blazer, sucking on a piece of ice, and damning Tom Holland to his grave. You glared daggers into the back of his pretty head as he leant against the railing of the pavilion, laughing with the crowd and swirling an old fashioned in his palm against the muted sounds of rackets hitting the ball in the background. When Harrison bent in to whisper to Holland, Tom took off his amber-tinted sunglasses and cleaned them on the inside of his suit jacket, and once finished, he nodded and started weaving his way through the spectators.

 

Holland wanted his lawyer here yet wasn’t doing anything worthwhile, you thought bitterly. You were too good for him, really, because you’d planted yourself near Senator Hernandez’s bench as he watched his daughter. While Holland flirted, you were eavesdropping and sweating your fucking skin off.

 

Near the end of the second set, you caved and shrugged off your blazer when you caught the latter half of something Hernandez was saying: “—read it? It’s brilliant. Next time Congress is in session, I’m bringing in that Epiales article.”

 

Your jaw dropped, and so did the ice from your mouth. Your blazer hung limp from one hand, and you steadied yourself against the tree, your high heels sinking into the earth. Fumbling around for your phone, you barely had time to get to Dr. Prine’s contact entry before someone gently nudged your arm from behind with a glass tumbler, condensation sticking to your skin.

 

“You look like you’d rather be anywhere else but here,” said Tom Holland, his voice hot in your ear, while he’s standing a little too close for comfort and holding out an old fashioned identical to his, “I can offer a distraction, at the least.”

 

You don’t drink, but you took what was offered. “Am I that transparent?”

 

“Like glass, sweetheart. What’s bothering you?” He leant against the tree trunk, slumping a little, and tapped his index finger against his tumbler.

 

“Afraid I’ve been dragged here for work.”

 

“On a Saturday?”

 

You met his gaze, completely fixated on you through the amber sunglasses. “My boss is a bit of an ass.”

 

“Sounds like it,” Tom said, cracking a grin, “Forcing you to come to some silly tennis match on the hottest day of the month and flat-out ignoring you.”

 

“It’s better than putting me in a sundress and having me on his arm.” Like Polson did once that summer. You had kicked his ass, verbally, about it, but since he threatened to smear your name through the mud for the rest of your life, which he was capable of doing, it had to be done. “At least I’m here for a reason, supposedly.”

 

“Who treats his employees like that? Wouldn’t dream of it.” Tom brought his glass to his mouth as his eyes flicked up and down your body, taking his time about it. “Though I’d put you in a green sundress. Something that shows off your shoulders.”

 

“And I’d put you in navy, in something with a high neckline. Anything to accentuate those pretty-boy cheekbones you’ve got,” you said.

 

At this, he ran his tongue over his lower lip, pushed off the tree, and took a step closer to you. He may be enjoying it now, but this motherfucker would regret this conversation in about five minutes. To be honest, you were enjoying it a little too much. To have someone as powerful, confident, and attractive (the grey tweed suit buttoned over a tight, white button-down was doing things to you) as Tom was having his complete, unadulterated attention on you? It was a taste of something you denied yourself. But no matter how fast his charisma held you, it was time to wrap it up. You planned to work for this man a _long_ time.

 

“Listen,” said Tom, “Why don’t I give you a tour of the country club?” He trailed two fingers from your wrist over the back of your hand to take your drink. “It’s not much, but we’ll get you into some air conditioning. We could find a place to talk without anyone overhearing, if you like.”

 

You rolled your shoulders back, and for the first time, you began to smile. “Hardly professional, Holland. To think I expected better of you.”

 

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

 

“Shouldn’t you be giving this attention to Senator Hernandez’s daughter? It’ll be easier to get to him through her.”

 

And there it was: his face hardened, his eyebrows furrowing and lips puckering very slightly, the brief clenching of his jaw and the flush around the tops of his ears—the face your opponents got in court when your research that would pack the case into a tight box was brought to the stand. “Who are you?” Tom asked flatly.

 

“You’re going to have to work for that information, Holland,” you said, “Be careful about how you respond. As much as you should like to, you can’t make a scene with so many witnesses.”

 

“I _own_ all of these people,” he said through his teeth.

 

“Go ahead, then,” you said, and you clasped your hand behind your back, waiting.

 

After a beat, Tom sighed exasperatedly and grabbed you by the wrist to pull you somewhere, but before he could take two steps, you yanked yourself out of his grasp. He didn’t even bother looking over his shoulder. “Are you going to follow me?”

 

“Are you going to hurt me?”

 

He turned his head enough to look you in the eye. “You’re going to talk.”

 

“And if I don’t?”

 

“You appear to know who I am. Use your imagination.” He jerked his head towards the country club’s restaurant, not far from the tennis courts. “C’mon.”

 

Death sounded good at all occasions for you, but since someone needed to feed your cat this evening, now wouldn’t be the best time to die. Not to mention you still had half a croissant left over from that morning, and you couldn’t let that go to waste. You followed behind Tom at a couple of paces, checking to ensure no one was watching you leave, because it sure looked like you were sneaking off to give him a blowjob behind the ice machine.

 

He made you go first once you reached the stairs to the upper storey restaurant, and he cornered you at the far end of the balcony, trapping you against the iron railing with the metal pressing into your back and his hands planted on either side of you. Tom stood close enough that you had to lean backwards a little over the railing, and you had to grip the railing just inside of his hands to stay upright.

 

His mouth twitched. “Why are you here?”

 

Your gaze flashed from his lips to his eyes. “I’m here to supervise the contract you’re making with Senator Hernandez, and I’m ensuring that he _does_ sign it.”

 

“And why’s that?” When he jerked forward in an attempt to make you lose your balance, you stifled a cough at the wave of the oversaturated cologne that hit you.

 

“Like I said, my boss is a bit of an ass.”

 

“ _Damn_ it,” Tom said, breaking eye contact for the first time. Freshly determined, he moved closer, his hipbones poking into you with one hand gripping your waist. “Who’d be stupid enough to provoke me? Who do you work for? Fletcher? The Fratellis?”

 

“You,” you said, and you left your lips pursed as he flinched away from you and bent over the back of a wrought-iron chair, pressing his fist to his mouth.

 

“I’m your lawyer,” you said, stifling a smile, “I wrote the Hernandez contract. I’ve also been managing your affairs for some time now, specifically covering your tracks for _fucking_ murder—”

 

“What’d you do to Ripley?” Tom straightened up and removed his sunglasses. He tucked them over his collar.

 

“Ripley’s gone,” you said, “of his own free will. Or of his will, at least, since he wasn’t free to leave under your—”

 

“Where is he now?”

 

“Sorry. Privileged information. What matters is that Ripley’s gone completely off-grid so that you can’t find him. Even I’m not able to reach him.” You tentatively slid from your corner along the railing nearer to the chair he had propped a foot on. “I’ve been working for you for over a month now. You really should keep better tabs on your employees—though, I suspect, that’ll be part of my job soon.”

 

Tom snapped his fingers twice. “Name.”

 

“Paul McCartney.”

 

He narrowed his eyes, his nose wrinkling in the process, and said, “ _Your_ name.”

 

You didn’t hesitate in saying it, a first for you, and as he mouthed the syllables slowly, you said, “And don’t bother looking me up. I don’t have any social media, nor do I have an online presence at all.” Under your real name, that is. “You can find me in a list of interns for a certain renown professor, but I’m about to give you that information, anyway.”

 

Tom stared up at you, a curl dangling in front of his eyes. “A freely given piece of personal information?” His fingertips pressed above his left lapel. “I’m touched,” he said, his voice dark.

 

“My mentor for the better part of my life now,” you said, stepping closer to drag the back of your hand over the iron pattern in Tom’s chair (he jolted backwards, just barely, but you caught it), “has been Tracey Prine.”

 

He tilted his head, and his jaw hung open slightly, his tongue lingering on the edge of his top incisors before clicking it against the roof of his mouth. “No, she hasn’t.”

 

“Want me to call her?” You dug your phone out of your pocket and unlocked it to her contact entry, just where it had been before Tom started talking to you. Your thumb waited above the call button for his decision, but whatever. Fuck with him. You pressed it anyway and put it on speaker.

 

It rang twice before she picked up, and at the sound of her voice stating your name and telling you she’s got a class in two minutes and to check on the _Times_ (you didn’t react to that part), Tom inhaled sharply and straightened his shoulders.

 

“Not much, Dr. Prine, but I’m here with my employer,” you say, the phone lying flat in your palm between you and Tom, whose gaze flickered from it to you.

 

“Tell Mr. Holland I appreciate his work ethic and that he should value yours to no end,” she said, “I’ve got to go. Tonight?”

 

“Tonight,” you said, and you hung up on her.

 

“What’s…?” When you shook your head, he held out his hand. “Let me see your texts.” He swore under his breath as he scrolled through them, going through months and months of casework for notable trials, and he read the attachments you had sent recently. “Lab work, blood results. An ice pi—holy _shit_ ,” Tom said, the hand with the phone falling limply to his lap, “The Laurens trial. _You_.” The corner of his mouth twitched before breaking into a smirk. “You’re the one that solved everything. You’re that viper.”

 

Oh, my _fuck_ ; he’s heard of you. Tom Holland has heard about you. He’s familiar with your work. Oh, holy fuck. You held it all in for the moment, but if you made it home alive, you were going to marathon _Star Wars_ and call in for takeaway. “That I am,” you said coolly, accepting your phone when he offered it, “and what does that mean for you, Mr. Holland?”

 

Any evidence of doubt about him evaporated, and his charisma returned almost instantly. He was smiling now, his teeth on display, and he leant towards you. “I want you at my side, _Viper_ ,” he said, his hands dangerously close to yours on the back of the iron chair, “I want you to do for me what you did for Laurens. Exclusively. I’ll be your only client. I want you to tear apart my enemies and _pick_ their bones clean. I want you to be _merciless,_ and I want you to be _mine._ ”

 

That’s a lot of subtext you’ll be thinking about in the shower later. But show nothing; be nothing. “You want an awful lot.”

 

Tom took a deep breath and moved to sit on the wrought-iron table. “That’s why I’m giving you an out,” he said, crossing his arms loosely, “before you’re in. Because once you’re in, you can’t leave. I’ll make sure of that.”

 

You took a moment before clasping your hands behind your back and taking a step around the chair towards him. “I want my privacy.”

 

“I can’t guarantee that. I’ve got to keep a close eye on you, since Ripley slithered away,” he said, “You’re a shot in the dark despite your accomplishments.”

 

“You _will_ guarantee it,” you said, leaning against the table with the iron pattern pressing into your palm, “Addresses, bank accounts, social security, everything that I don’t give you.”

 

Tom shook his head. “I can’t—”

 

“You _will_. It’s all I’m asking. I’ll be covering _your_ dirty work from the world, so why can’t I hide mine?” It was your turn to be too close, for your breath to be hot against his skin as you said softly into his ear, “Tell me, Holland: are you afraid of the dark?”


	2. Vinculum Juris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You try to work your way into Tom’s good graces, but it could be a lot easier than how he’s making it.

“ _Sign_ it.” Your knuckles turned white as you clenched the edge of your rickety desk. “Get it over with.”

 

Tom held the fountain pen above the contract hastily scrawled in script on a pink index card: _I, Thomas Stanley Holland, will give my lawyer any form of privacy as she defines it in exchange for her compliance and silence regarding anything I may instruct her to do concerning my mafia ties._ He tapped the paper twice, and two blots of ink blurred the signature line. “You’re tricking me somehow.”

 

“You’re stalling.”

 

“Explain what you mean by privacy _as you define it_ ,” Tom said, setting down the pen and leaning against the desk with one hand.

 

“It means,” you said, “that the only information you have on my life is what I tell you. Neither you nor anyone else within your control will go looking for what I don’t want you to know. My address, for example. My mother’s phone number. Dr. Prine’s phone number. My personal email.”

 

Sucking in through his teeth, Tom picked up the pen again and spun it in his fingers. “This is almost too loosely defined.”

 

You pursed your lips. “This is the simplest, most flexible, possibly most idiotic contract I’ve ever written up, if one could even call it a contract. It’s nothing but security for me, Mr. Holland, to get it in writing.”

 

“I don’t have time for this; I’ve meeting Haz in ten,” said Tom, sliding the card across the desk to you, “We’ll talk about this later.”

 

You caught his hand before he could retract it. “Hold _up_ , Mr. Holland.” You shot him a _look_ , tilting your chin up. “I’m not working against you. I’ve written this so that we can be a team. My demands aren’t unreasonable.” You lifted your hand, but his remained pressing the card against the desk. “I’m agreeing to do practically anything for you, and you can’t grant me my privacy? I almost hesitate to remind you, sir, that you can’t exactly replace me at the moment. With Ripley gone, I’m the only one trained to deal with your legal business. Not to mention I’m the only one to know some of your passwords. As much as you may not like it, Mr. Holland, I’m _in_.”

 

Tom blinked slowly, and he straightened himself, flexing his fingers as he did so. “Not yet, you’re not.”

 

“Of course I—”

 

“In the mafia, I mean,” said Tom, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards when your eyebrows shot up—but you recovered and pulled on the hem of your blazer, meeting his eyes.

 

“And how would I join?”

 

Tom’s jaw relaxed as he turned to retrieve his suit coat off the back of a chair. “First, you have to prove yourself,” he said, sliding his arm into a sleeve, “Second, you have to be inducted. After that, I’ll sign your contract. I’ll give you one more chance to leave—” You scoffed at this. “—once you’re inducted, the only way out is death.”

 

“Perfect. Ideal. Is that supposed to dissuade me?” You walked around your desk towards the door to your stupid office that doesn’t even lock. “Come on. I’m already committed.”

 

“Funny how I don’t believe you,” Tom said, buttoning the last and ignoring your gesture to hurry up and leave. He took one last look around your shoddy, leaky office and strode towards the door.

 

You opened it for him. “Then how do I earn your trust?”

 

Tom stopped in the doorway and broke into a grin.

 

***

 

Ms. Glory Pham lived alone in a narrow, white house in a gated community called Crosscreek outside of New York City. You need two codes to get past the first gate and had to be buzzed through after that. The housekeeper who ushered you inside instructed you to leave your heels at the door, so here you were, the cold of the stone floor seeping through your stockings as you gazed around Glory Pham’s living room: white, capacious, and untouched, as if it were from a catalogue. The only colour in the room came from the abstract painting above the fireplace (you could make out the semblance of a piano keyboard and what was probably a trumpet) and several cracked geodes on the mantel.

 

“So, you _have_ arrived. From your emails, you didn’t seem like the type to keep appointments.” A little offended, you turned your head in the direction of a tall, Vietnamese woman in her late forties with her shoulders rolled back and a notebook in hand coming from the kitchen. She rounded the island, paused to glance at your feet, and set her notebook on the coffee table before sitting on the edge of the leather couch.

 

You moved to sit on the opposite couch so that you could have the table between you, but she raised a finger, her glare sharp. “No,” she said, “Stand. Put the bag down.” Glory raked her eyes over your wool suit, and she couldn’t spot cat hair from where she was sitting, could she? “Turn,” she said, twirling her finger in a circle, “Slowly.” You did, and she clicked her mechanical pencil before jotting something down. She nodded at you to sit. “You are two minutes late. You have eight minutes left to convince me.”

 

“Ms. Pham, we agreed on three-thirty. Your watch must be fast,” you said, the leather creaking as you sat onto it.

 

She narrowed her eyes. “Interesting. You say you represent Osseous Enterprises?”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” you said, and she wrote something else down at that. “Osseous Enterprises wants to sponsor a special exhibit in the Morgan Memorial Hall of Gems. The green diamond that was discovered two months ago in Arkansas, the Gawain Diamond, has just been cut and sold to the state park. Osseous proposes that it be on display in the American Museum of Natural History for a year before it is returned to Arkansas.” You handed her some of your research and the written proposal from your bag.

 

“You say it’s been cut.” Glory flipped the first page over. “To what dimensions?”

 

“It was originally 134.7 carats, but it’s been cut to 61.” A little larger than a shooter marble. At the moment Tom told you about it, you’d wanted to put it in your mouth. You’d shaken yourself at that intrusive thought and dismissed it.

 

“Waste of a rough green. Is it really this deep, Brunswick green, or is this picture too saturated?”

 

Brunswick? “It’s an accurate depiction,” you said, “If you say the word, I have the Crater of Diamonds State Park foremost in my contacts. The calls can be made today, if you like.”

 

“Give me your phone.” Glory held out her palm, beckoning twice with bends of her fingertips. You didn’t unlock it for her, and she didn’t ask. She set it in her lap, screen down, and didn’t examine it any further. “How much would Osseous be willing to give towards this exhibit?”

 

“Page three,” you said.

 

She didn’t touch the packet.

 

“Whose idea was this? Yours?”

 

“Mr. Holland’s. Publicity, you know. A positive name in the public sphere.”

 

Glory clicked her pencil again. “What’s the name of your cat?”

 

Shit. Wincing, you shut your eyes, cleared your throat, and said, “Her name’s Trout.”

 

Setting her notebook aside, Glory leant forward. “You’ve passed,” she said, “for now. I encourage you to remember the person inside your persona. Do you care for Darjeeling?”

 

***

 

The stack of papers landed on Tom Holland’s desk with a _thump_ that upset dust. “There,” you said as he looked up, a curl falling over his forehead, “We’ve got our exhibit.” Crossing your arms, you put your weight on one foot and smiled as Tom checked the four places Glory had signed and dated. “But in case you doubt me any further, please turn to the page that’s been torn out of a notebook. Remember how the Morgan hall of gems is currently closed for building that new wing? Well, let’s say that the future Allison and Roberto Mignone Halls of Gems and Minerals now have a featured exhibit.”

 

Tossing the notebook paper aside, Tom leant back in his chair, the tip of his tongue against his two front teeth. “Impossible. How’d you do it?”

 

You had no fucking idea. “Talent, Holland. Some of us have it.” When Tom gestured for you to carry on, you said, “Once I got past Ms. Pham’s impermeable coldness, it was easy. Even offered me tea.” She also told you to paint your toenails (“And a _decent_ colour, by God.”) the next time you were summoned, but Tom didn’t need to know that. “Told me a little about being director of prospect research and management and some stuff about how it would work. We called the state park towards the end.”

 

“When we’ve tried to work with her in the past, she turned away Harrison. Wouldn’t even answer Ripley’s emails.” Tom pressed his thumbnail to his lower lip. “Wear white tonight. You’ll want your hair up.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Tonight’s your induction,” said Tom, “You’re joining the mob. Eleven o’clock, third floor of the basement, yeah? Don’t talk to anyone in the building. Don’t take a taxi here. You can’t have any record that you’re going to be here tonight. Don’t tell Dr. Prine. Ah!” He raised an eyebrow when you opened your mouth, and you closed it again. “Not until after it’s done. The government’s got just as many people tapping phones as I do. Got it?” He held out his hand for you to shake.

 

“Yes, sir,” you said, and his hand clenched a little tighter.

 

“One more question,” Tom said, tapping the notebook paper, “Why’d you sign this as _Viper_?”

 

***

 

Your bra immediately came off once you got back to your flat, and, with Trout butting her head against your ankles, you made your way to your bed with your phone on speaker for a call with Dr. Prine. You pulled up the Epiales website while you talked, and she recommended you write something on the multiple felonies an extremely prominent politician just committed. You had more than half a mind to do it, especially since Polson was on the team of prosecutors who came to that conclusion, and you still had passwords to Polson’s files. Guilt pricked at you for even considered violating Polson’s law firm like that, even though he _was_ a twat, and your frantic attempt to remind yourself that you’re in the mob so you have to be cool with unethical things now did not work.

 

Polson’s not entirely stupid. He’s probably changed the passwords by now.

 

You pulled up his work email, typed everything in, and hit enter, and you were logged into his email account. He had two unread emails, one about a family client and the other about replacing the microwave in the break room. Fingers dancing over the mousepad, you logged out. It wouldn’t be right.

 

You’d write the felonies article by yourself, but not tonight. With _She’s All That_ playing, Trout catloafed on your feet, while you ate the ingredients to a sandwich (you didn’t feel like actually making it) and fruit snacks and tried to ignore the stone in your gut when you thought about the aging, white dress in the back of your closet.

 

***

 

Five minutes until eleven o’clock, and you were bouncing on the balls of your feet in the lift to the basement of Osseous Enterprises, the label on the third floor button worn away from frequent pressing. Steeling yourself as the lift doors opened, you were greeted by a man in a suit you didn’t recognise. He snapped his fingers and gestured for you to follow, and you did, your heels clacking louder than usual down a dark corridor. He could hardly be heard or seen, but you were a sitting duck in white. He halted in front of a door and frisked you, and once he’d taken your phone and keys, he let you inside.

 

Cold pricked at your bare arms as the door creaked closed behind you. Around a circular table lit with candles, wavering with breath, sat Tom, Harrison, and Maccabruno, Tom’s consigliere, all with hands folded. Chairs creaking and a cough came from the perimeters of the room, so there had to be capos present that you couldn’t see. Just the same.

 

Pulling out the empty chair in front of Tom, you sat with caution, not breaking eye contact with Tom. The candlelight flickered across the contours of his face, a deep shadow around his jawline. His deep, brown eyes were icy and detached, and honestly, it made you uneasy. But show no weakness.

 

Harrison spoke first, more to the unseen capos than to you. “Since the mafia is a criminal organisation rooted in secrecy, it cannot have any paper documents of its members that can be confiscated by the police. Therefore, we rely on the tradition of the ritual ceremony, although this particular induction is not traditional. There are no women in our mafia.”

 

Oh, God. Whose dick were you going to have to suck? You’ve never done that before, and it’d be in _public—_ no, stop. You don’t know that’s what going to happen.

 

“You are to treat this woman as any member of our family. You don’t touch her. She’s not here for you,” said Harrison, unfolding his hands and looking around the room, “There are no exceptions. She’ll follow the rules just as you do. The rules will not be changed.”

 

“Some of you may doubt her worth,” said Maccabruno, his voice grating but caustic, “After months of keeping silence in the face of our brutality, her trial for trust was obtaining the key codes to Crosscreek, something even Mr. Osterfield could not acquire. She turned them in to us this afternoon.”

 

A murmur shot around room, echoing off the high ceiling. The key codes? The _key codes_? What about the exhibit for the Gawain Diamond? What about cracking Ms. Pham? Didn’t those count for anything? Tom could’ve at least _told_ you, and then you wouldn’t have to have met with Ms. Pham and have been psychoanalytically scrutinised.

 

“Before she is confirmed, she must first understand and accept our rules. Viper,” Harrison said to get your attention, and your head snapped in his direction. That name was a joke between you and Tom; why was he calling you that? “Listen well. Should you break any of these rules, the penalty is death.”

 

Pretty standard in the world of law, too. You nodded.

 

“First and foremost is the code of silence, the _omertà_. You are never to speak to any authorities. You are never to be seen with any law enforcers,” said Harrison, “You cannot speak about the business to non-members under any circumstances.”

 

“This includes Dr. Prine,” Tom said, low enough for only those at the table to hear. He waited for you to nod again before nudging Harrison to continue.

 

“If a member is killed by another member, no one can murder in revenge unless Mr. Holland gives permission. There is no killing of other men of honour unless absolutely necessary. The decision will not be yours. You will not physically fight with other members, nor will you steal from them. Do not interfere with another’s interests. His business is his own.”

 

Maccabruno cleared his throat and sent a warning glare around the room. “You are not to commit adultery with another family member’s spouse. They are to be treated with respect.”

 

“You aren’t to go to bars or clubs. You will always be available for work, even if your mother is dying. Any appointments made with those above you will always, _always_ be kept.”

 

“And when we ask you for any information,” Tom said, tapping his thumbs together and staring you down, “The answer must be the truth.”

 

“If you break any of these rules, you will be killed by another member of the family,” Maccabruno was saying as Harrison began rummaging about in his pockets, “Usually, your murderer will be the person closest to you.”

 

Don’t make friends. Got it.

 

Harrison placed parallel in the centre of the table a long knife and a picture of one of St. Peter’s icons. “Give the don your right hand.”

 

You laid your hand across the table as Tom picked up the knife. He gripped your hand by your fingertips, holding it up to the level of the flames.

 

“As you are granted a protection as no one else, so you must enter as no one else,” said Harrison.

 

You inhaled sharply when Tom pressed the tip of the blade into your palm, but he wouldn’t look at you. With a steady hand, he traced your bones to the end of each finger, leaving trails of blood oozing onto the tablecloth.

 

“You will never know this woman’s name. You shall know her only as _Viper,_ ” Harrison was saying, but it didn’t exactly register; you were more focused on the amount of blood dripping down your wrist. “This is as the don commands.”

 

Setting the knife aside, Tom guided your hand above the picture of St. Peter, and he curled your fingers into your palm and squeezed, indicating for you to follow. Your fingernails dug into the cuts until the paper bent with blood.

 

Harrison lifted a candle out of its holder, and Tom placed the sticky paper onto your bleeding hand, making it lay flat. Standing, Harrison lit the picture afire, and it blazed to life in your hand. You ground your teeth together, acutely aware of maintaining a blank expression, but your fingers spasmed under the pain. You barely heard the oath Harrison told you, but you repeated it with a steady voice: “As burns this saint, so will burn my soul. I enter alive, and I will have to get out dead.”

 

The candles crackled in the silent minute it took for the picture to turn to ash in your hand, and Tom, Harrison, and Maccabruno put their hands over their hearts. Tom nodded almost imperceptibly for you to do the same. And so you did, the last of the flame sizzling out as you lay your hand over your heart, permanently staining the white with ash and blood.

 

“As of this hour, until her death, this is a woman of honour,” Tom said, dropping his hand, “She’s one of us, now.” Amidst the staggered applause, Tom leant over the table, put his thumb under your chin, and kissed both of your cheeks.

 

***

 

 _Holy_ moly. While the capos cleared out, Maccabruno kept you behind, tossing you a washcloth to clean up your cuts. He made you write down the key codes again so that he could have a hard copy, and then he gave you a couple of books on the history of the mafia, just so that you could know the gravitas of what you were a part of. After he dismissed you, you jogged down the hall to catch up with the capo who took your phone and keys, and he not only returned them but had a welcoming gift for you, which was fucking bizarre. He gave you a tiny, potted cactus, which you resolved to check for bugs when you got back to your office.

 

Laden with books and the cactus in your good hand, you took the lift up to the surface of Osseous Enterprises and to your office. The moonlight came through the hallway windows in bright beams as you walked down the corridor and turned the corner. You’d flip through the books and water the cactus before going home and washing the hell out of your hand. Maybe read some poetry. Check up on Dr. Prine’s law journal.

 

When you got to your office, however, its light splayed into the hallway through the crack under the door. Sighing, you grasped the knob with your free hand, wincing as you did so, and opened the door to see Tom Holland sitting on your desk, fountain pen in hand.

 

He cracked a smile. “You see why we can’t have a hard copy of a contract now?”

 

You made a huffing noise and began to shelve the books. “If you’d mentioned that, I’d’ve understood. I’m not going to outsmart you on anything that matters.”

 

“Don’t talk to me like that. You forget your place,” Tom said, fiddling with the index card contract, “How’s your hand?”

 

“Disgusting, thanks.” You cupped your cactus and looked around for a place for it to live. “Will you still sign it?”

 

“Start a new index card and rephrase it. So long as the mob isn’t explicitly mentioned, I’ll do it.” Tom took the cactus and passed you the pen.

 

_I, T.S.H., will give my lawyer any form of privacy as she defines it in exchange for her compliance and silence regarding anything I may instruct her to do within reason._

 

“This doesn’t mean I’m going to do your laundry,” you said as he initialled the card at the bottom, “I intend to keep this relationship as professional as possible.”

 

Tom slid the index card towards you. “Keep this somewhere safe, where no one else can ever see it. This is just between you and me.”

 

“Absolutely,” you said, pocketing it at the same time Tom’s phone went off. He yanked it out and muttered a soft _fuck_ once he saw the screen. “What’s going on?”

 

“There is no rest for the wicked. We’ve got to go.” Tom shoved his phone back in his coat and buttoned it up, and he grabbed your jacket from a chair and tossed it to you on the way out. “Crosscreek has been bombed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vinculum juris: the chains of the law; something that is legally binding.


	3. Ad Quod Damnum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: swears, the law, blood, misogyny, drug mention, talking about human trafficking, mention of rape, mention of FGM, mention of forced pregnancy.
> 
> Summary: You’re doing your best to be good, both ethically and professionally, but the streams start to cross. You’re not getting noticed for your work, but it’s not quite the same as before.

After pulling your sleeves down, you buttoned your coat over the bloody, ashy handprint on your dress. “What can you see?”

 

Firelight reflected off of the lenses of Tom’s binoculars. He licked his lips, his breath visible in the cold. “Not a whole lot. Boost me up.”

 

“Mr. Osterfield might be more suited for this,” you said, but you helped Tom up the next rung of the fence to Crosscreek anyway. Still supporting Tom, you turned towards the throng of neighbourhood residents outside the gate, where Harrison was questioning people as nonchalantly as possible to find any witnesses to the blistering blaze in a section of Crosscreek. “It’s not Ms. Pham’s house,” you said, peeking through the bars, “Hers is on the west end.”

 

“Of course not,” said Tom. He adjusted the sights. “It’s one of the D’Aleos’ houses, their headquarters outside the city.”

 

“ _What_ the—the D’Aleos? The _D’Aleos_ have a camp here?” You stepped to the side to try to get his attention. “You sent me blind into another mob family’s territory without even telling me—”

 

“We needed the key codes to infiltrate the house,” Tom said, not tearing his gaze away from the fire, “S’pose that won’t happen now. Maybe another location, then.”

 

“I’d rather go into Fratelli territory than D’Aleo,” you said, slumping against the fence, “At least they’re polite.”

 

“I can’t make out more than silhouettes, but it looks like more than the fire department’s there.”

 

“Bomb squad?”

 

“Not for one that’s already gone off.” Tom jumped down from the fence and held out the binoculars. “You check it out.”

 

You took them and climbed up without Tom’s help, since he didn’t offer it, and Harrison approached while you wrapped your free hand around one of the frigid, metal spikes. No one in the crowd had seen the bomb go off, but some had seen the process of explosion. The ground floor of the D’Aleo house had exploded, and the upper storey had collapsed with the growing flames. Certainly seemed to be the case—the only thing left untouched was the chimney, standing tall amidst a steadily rising pile of ashes.

 

You got down and returned the binoculars. “Was anyone inside when it blew?”

 

Harrison raised an eyebrow. “How’s that matter? How would I have that information?”

 

Christ, this desensitised mob. “I don’t—”

 

“They may blame you,” Tom said, stowing the binoculars in a pack, “You’re the most recent person given the codes. Better watch your back, Viper.”

 

“ _Watch_ my—did you account for this when you sent me?”

 

“You’d better watch your _tone_. It sounds like you’re accusing me,” said Tom, scowling, “which you have no right to do. Not exactly a promising start to your career.”

 

Your phone went off in your coat pocket, but you didn’t move under Tom’s glower until he barked at you to answer it.

 

**Glory Pham:** _Explosion in my neighbourhood. Am fine. Still meeting tomorrow at 0900 hrs. If not arriving with biscotti from Davey’s, do not bother to arrive._

Tom read the text over your shoulder, his nose twitching as his frown deepened. “This woman thinks awfully well of herself to demand that from a business partner. Reply cordially but make no mention of fulfilling her request.”

 

Sending the text off, you stowed your phone away, and Tom directed his attention towards Harrison. “Contact D’Aleo; tell him we’re open for pecuniary support if he wants it. Don’t tell him we know about it in any terms other than what’s on the news. Make nice. Then contact the Fratellis and—hang on,” Tom said, turning towards you and slowly crossing his arms, “That woman has your phone number.”

 

“Correct,” you said.

 

Through the bars of the fence, firelight illuminated half of his face, morphing constantly into shadow. He opened his mouth to say something but shut it again. Scoffing, Tom returned to his conversation with Harrison with his arms tightly crossed over his chest. “Tell the Fratellis that the D’Aleos are gonna come at them for help. If you can, persuade them to deny them. We need to provide a narrow window of support; I’m gonna need a favour from D’Aleo soon.”

 

“He’s not going to like that,” said Harrison, jotting down notes on his phone.

 

“Tell me something I don’t know. If—”

 

“Excuse me, sir,” you said, stepping a bit closer to them to include yourself in the conversation, “Weren’t you going to tell me something?”

 

Tom’s fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck, and he, scrunching his eyes closed, gave a weak, dismissive wave. “Go home, Viper,” he said, “I don’t need you.”

 

***

 

Tom flipped his pants pocket inside-out and wiped his reddening knuckles on it. “Drop him,” he said to the two capos holding a middle-aged man who had once been quite pugnacious but now was still, save for the heaving chest, “He’s disoriented and won’t try anything. Leave. Text Maccabruno that we found him.” He stuffed his pocket right-side-in again, and the capos dropped the bastard onto his knees on their way out.

 

Tom unbuttoned his suit coat, and when he spoke, his voice was even but weighed with fury. “Where’ve you been for the past five months, Wright?”

 

You clicked your pen and held it to your legal pad. Neither man paid any attention to it, but that was the point: you weren’t to be noticed until you were told. You perched on the arm of Tom’s chair behind his desk, your legs crossed at the ankle and your skirt hitched up a little too high for a secretary Tom wasn’t keeping around to fuck.

 

“I haven’t been anywhere significant. I’ve stayed in Queens, as promised.”

 

“Then how come I haven’t seen you since before the New Year?”

 

“I’ve been,” said Wright, gulping. He waited a moment. “Depressed.”

 

“Fuck off; we don’t all have the luxury of retreating to whatever opium den you’ve been hiding in when we have a depressive episode. You can still do your fucking job and be depressed,” said Tom, who was still unaware you were the highest-functioning depressed person he had in his circle of acquaintances, “Other Queens contractors have had to pull your weight, and what’s more, I’ve been more than generous in letting your property go relatively untouched, considering you haven’t the motivation to keep up the protection fee. You owe me.”

 

Wright pulled at the rope tying his hands behind his back. “I can’t deny that, Mr. Holland, but I can’t pay—”

 

“I’m more than aware of that,” said Tom, and he tossed his suit jacket over the back of a chair and began to roll up his sleeves as he strode towards Wright, each step a hollow _clunk_ on the hardwood floor.

 

Instead of writing the dialogue, you jotted down the physical reactions Wright had to whatever Tom did. Words you could recall later, but a twitch, a glance towards the window—you might not remember.

 

Besides, you were recording the exchange. Early on you had decided that Tom wouldn’t tell you everything, out of spite or negligence, so, inspired by your initial gift, you had given Tom a potted cactus for his desk. In the potting soil, you’d planted (bah-dum, tsh) your first major investment with your new income: the highest quality recording device on the market. When you got back to your flat each evening, you’d go through the daily file, type it, and sort it according to what case it helped. Tom would be livid if he knew, but _like_ he’s going to rummage through cactus dirt.

 

You’d also invested in a flask—not for alcohol; you never drank—but so that Tom’s men (and the idiots you ran into out in the city) would never offer you drinks. You swopped out your liquid every now and then, but currently, you were on a pink lemonade kick. You kept it on an easily hidden holster around your waist, along with your wallet and phone. Carrying around a purse was too cumbersome in addition to your rucksack—which lay carefully under your feet and was itching to be pried open so that you could slam Wright into the ground with its contents.

 

“Get up,” Tom hissed, and when he prodded Wright’s knee with his foot, Wright sat upright, tilting his head back and exposing his neck. “C’mon, are you following along? You still with me? Use your voice, not your head.”

 

“I am,” said Wright, clearing his throat with difficulty.

 

“Head clear enough to keep going? Then you have two minutes.” Tom turned halfway towards you and gestured loosely towards Wright, who coughed bloody phlegm onto the floor. You dug the folder out of your rucksack and handed your legal pad to Tom when you passed him.

 

“What, you’re gonna let your fucking secretary read me my punishment?” Wright scowled when you stopped in front of him, clear of spitting distance. His sclera was blossoming into a deep vermillion, and it struck you that red looked nice against dark eyelashes. “You’ve gotten lazy in the months I’ve—”

 

“If you had to lose a finger, which one would you choose?”

 

Bafflement flashed across his face, and before he could question it, you asked him the same again. This time, he said the pinkie on his non-dominant hand and flexed his fingers behind him, steeling himself.

 

“Interesting choice,” you said, taking the knife Tom handed you and flipping out the blade, “Most people say that, and it really shows how little the American public knows about human anatomy. Do you know the difference between precision and power grip?”

 

Wright flicked a worried look towards Tom and back to you. Interesting how they all turned to Tom for stability once you started talking. Wright shook his head.

 

“Precision grip involves the pinching motion with your thumb, index, and middle fingers. The distal two joints are the only ones being used,” you said, shifting the file to your side, “Power grip uses all fingers and the thumb as they wrap around an object. It uses all of your joints, and the ring and little fingers do most of the work. What they lack in precision, they make up for in strength, the little finger being the strongest. Holland.”

 

He took your file and held it loosely by his side, his gaze never leaving you as you rounded Wright and knelt.

 

“Make a fist,” you told Wright, straining to look over his shoulder at you, “Feel the strength of each finger. No, eyes to the front.” You turned his chin towards Tom, and Wright’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

 

“The correct choice is your index finger,” you said, prying open his fist and sliding the blade across his index finger—lightly, not enough to break skin but enough to put him on edge. “You don’t need it. The middle finger functions just as well for precise grip actions, and the index doesn’t do much otherwise.” You tapped the tip on the crease of his second knuckle, and he flinched. “Your middle is more involved in power grip than the index, which is why it’s the second choice. The ring finger comes next, because you’re losing power, and the little finger after, again, for power grip. The thumb should be your last choice.” You slid the knife over it now, letting it swipe lazily to the skin between index and thumb. “If you lose your thumb, you lose all precision grip. You’d still have power, but it’s affected nevertheless. It’s your only opposable digit, so there’s no substituting for it.”

 

Letting the information breathe, you drew figure-eights up and down his fingers for a moment. Tom’s throwing your legal pad onto his desk was the only noise that interrupts Wright’s shaky breathing and the A/C.

 

Tom leant against his desk, clutched your file to his chest, and tilted his chin up very slightly. “What say you to that, Wright?”

 

With incredulity in his voice, Wright said, “You learn something new every—”

 

You drove the knife through his right palm, and you stood slowly. You walked over to Tom and thanked him over the screeching, and you exchanged the knife for your file. Later, you’d justify stabbing him to yourself over a sink; Tom had eyed you during the first feeble aftermath, but now you hid it entirely. You wondered vaguely how your cat was doing.

 

“Holy _fuck_ , woman,” said Wright in his high register, “You can’t do that to me. This is still a business arrangement; you can’t—I know my rights.”

 

“Really?” You looked at Tom and back at Wright. “Name them.”

 

He bit his tongue with force as you returned to him, pulling the first page out of the folder. “Now, why haven’t you filed your tax returns for your front business?”

 

“What,” Wright said, panting, “the _fuck_?”

 

“You’re overdue. For quite some time, now. Tax evasion is a crime, Mr. Wright.”

 

And there it was: the visible processing of what was happening, the cogs turning in the client’s head so loudly that the men downstairs could hear it, the awe, confusion, and then anger: “Holy fucking shit,” said Wright, “You’re the Viper.”

 

“I’m pleased to hear your cognitive functions are still operating. Gold star. Tax evasion, Mr. Wright.”

 

“That doesn’t—the fuck—that doesn’t matter; I’ve been doing it for—”

 

“I know it doesn’t matter. But did you note the physical signs of relief you just showed?” You waved the tax form at him. “When you found out it was _only_ tax evasion? Your shoulders _legitimately_ slumped in relief, Wright, and I thought only cartoon characters did that. I’m not here to talk about your tax records, you fuck.”

 

Here you waited; where there was a silence after a vague accusation, sometimes there was a confession. You didn’t need it, but you took confessing into account when you dealt with clients further. Again Wright glanced at Tom for clarification, for stability, for _anything_ , and he wouldn’t give it to him.

 

“Springfield, Missouri. Your wife’s shelter. Thirty-eight, seventeen, nine.”

 

His face fell blank. He opened his mouth and closed it, and then he set his jaw. “Prostitution’s on the way to being legalised.”

 

“That’s pimp talk. Now, I know what my views on prostitution are, and you know yours, but why we’re here today isn’t about personal views, you fucker. It’s about the law, the lives you’ve ruined, and your betrayal of trust. Let’s talk about justice and gender.” You clasped your hands behind your back and paced leisurely around him.

 

“In law school, the message was that I didn’t belong because I was a woman. Supreme Court justices came to my school the spring of my first year, during which they were sure to emphasise keeping women lawyers at large, corporate firms because of family-friendly policies.” You stopped behind him, looking down at the crown of his head. “This was the only issue regarding women they spoke of, and that was the beginning, the beginning of linking their narrow approach to gender with my feeling of isolation.”

 

You took a glance towards Tom. This information was new to him, but he wasn’t reacting at all. Simply leaning against his desk, arms crossed. No expression. It didn’t matter, you supposed—he knew your views on gendered justice; he just didn’t know why. Well, you learn something new every day.

 

“I spoke in class, because no other female students would, and people noticed. A tenured professor tended to talk directly with me during what was theoretically a class discussion. Sometimes, he would agree wholeheartedly, and others, he’d drag me through the dirt—all using gendered vocabulary, thinly veiling that I was wrong for _emotional_ reasons, which lawyers aren’t supposed to be. Because of all my interaction with this professor, my fellow students thought I was fucking him—when in reality, he hated me—as belayed to me by a friend who talked to him in office hours.” You stayed behind Wright. Keeping an eye on Tom was more important to you.

 

“Again, I was—to put it crudely— _groped_ my second year by an upperclassman. When I reported him to the chair and again to the dean, nothing happened, when it should have gone on his permanent record. The administration was too willing to sweep my case and worse under the rug. But enough about me,” you said, coming to a halt and bouncing on the balls of your feet, “The history of law has always been drenched in misogyny.”

 

You flicked the back of Wright’s head. “I know. You’re zoning out. You don’t want to listen to a woman talk about feminism. This is going a place very relevant to you, so at the very least, pay attention to figure out if you’re gonna walk out of this room or be carried out. Are you following along?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Feeling a bit daring, you said, “Yes _what_?”

 

Wright shifted his jaw. “Yes, ma’am.”

 

“Good boy. Now, for ages, legal convention has allowed familial violence and rape and has equated these actions with damage to property. You say that’s gone, that that’s old hat. Chin up, bucko; history’s only getting started. Cogs in favour of women have been churning less than a century, but legal capabilities are rooted in a patriarchal system—I can practically hear you rolling your eyes. Roll them again, and they’ll be rolling across the floor. When studying law or building a career in it, the system is designed to shape you into the romanticised epitome of the profession. Being a human person can’t interfere with legal culture, especially when that human person is knocking against gender discrimination that’s just been part of the system since it began.”

 

You glanced at Wright out of the corner of your eye. If he were untied and physically fit, he’d be picking at his fingernails. He had that look: glazed over and fixated on the floor. Hackneyed posture. Might’ve been any jerk you see at the library if it weren’t for the blood and tears dripping out of his eye.

 

Tom remained unmoved, but his gaze was on you, not Wright.

 

“When you’re stuck in an environment that’s designed to crush who you are, you tend to adopt silence as your method of protection. There was one thing that pulled me through. Just one.” You clasped your hands behind your back. “I had a magnificent professor who saw the light in me and raised me from the depths. She had my back when the world was against me. She was my rock when my life was crumbling.” You rounded to Wright’s front, now, and you tilted up your chin to glare down at him. “So you’d _better_ believe I’m gonna be that and more for women who are silenced and abused by worms like _you._ There’s a danger to women in places like mine, and I’m gonna do all I can to keep them safe.”

 

Gripping Wright’s hair, you forced his gaze to lock with yours. His blond hair matted blood between your fingers. “Back to Springfield, Missouri. When you go through one of the cities with the highest human trafficking rate in the nation, you tend to get noticed. _I_ noticed. Now, with my help, your wife’s noticed.”

 

Wright’s eyes widened, and he spat bloody phlegm in your face. Closing your eyes and freezing your expression, you released his hair, stood, and flicked it delicately off your cheekbone. “Holland,” you said over your shoulder, “Has this man been tested?”

 

“He’s clean,” said Tom in a hoarse voice.

 

“Thank you,” you said, and you returned your focus to Wright. “Grace was more than willing to help provide all banking accounts, emails, and passwords once I showed her the patterns of your movements and women and a depressingly large amount of underage girls going missing from her women’s shelter.”

 

“You _fucking_ bitch,” said Wright, “She didn’t know anything about the trafficking, but she—”

 

“Oh, I know. Which is why we’ve examined all found content concerning it and purged her connections with it. You shouldn’t leave such a thorough paper trail, Mr. Wright.” You opened your folder and idly flipped through it. “I have you for trafficking, kidnapping, rape, assault, opiate—”

 

“You— _bitch_. You can’t prove a thing.”

 

You half-shrugged. “True, but your wife could, once she connected the dots, and now enough information is in my hands to ruin you and your company. However, I wanted to give Grace some agency on the matter since you betrayed her, and I gave her a choice on whether to send you to prison or hell.” You closed your file. “Let’s just say she doesn’t want you on state health care.”

 

Wright lunged the best he could on his knees towards you and began to shout, and you simply took a step back. When the client is reduced to nothing but name-calling and threats, it’s time to wrap up.

 

And Tom’s phone rang. You reviewed Grace’s personal accounts while he talked and made a mental note to help her and her kids get out of state temporarily. Maybe to Maine. Low population. Lots of forests. Forests are peaceful.

 

Tom swore loudly into his phone, and he finished the phone call in a hurry. “Viper,” he said, turning on his heel, “I have a job for you.”

 

“Is it all right leaving Wright here?” Your heels clicked together as you came to stand in front of Tom, and you handed him the folder.

 

“I’ll handle him,” said Tom, loosening his tie enough to slip from around his neck, “You’re going alone. I’ll have a car for you outside by the time you get to the lobby, and I’ll text you the details.” Fucking hell. Another excuse to contact you via phone—he’d never admit it, but you saw the glint in his eye when you gave him your number a while back. You knew what he was about. You wished, at least, he’d text in full sentences.

 

“Understood. Should I be armed?”

 

“Harrison’s already there,” said Tom, “but he won’t be for long. He thinks you’d ought to check it out, though. Some Fratelli men are staking out the place since the police discovered it, since it’s on their turf, but it’s a sector we’re friendly with.”

 

“All right,” you said. You took a moment to look at Wright, who had fallen silent again and was staring at the floor again in a dazed way. You turned back to Tom and said so that only he could hear: “I know it isn’t my place to make suggestions, but I would love to come back to this scum not having any teeth.”

 

Tom raised an eyebrow but said nothing, and when he nodded once, you took it as your dismissal. When you glanced over your shoulder at him as your closed the door, he gave you a small smile where Wright couldn’t see.

 

***

 

“Top floor?” You pulled on a latex glove with a snap.

 

“No, the penultimate one,” said Harrison, “Top floor’s completely empty. You want the main room on the fourth floor on the left. The police have already been through it and marked out the silhouette. Unnecessary.”

 

“Like a good, old-fashioned cop show,” you said, flexing your latex-covered fingers, “Do we have a weapon yet?”

 

“Lots lying around the premises but none suited to skin someone. I’m on my way to check out his skin; it was dumped on his front steps,” said Harrison.

 

“Was the rest of the body found here before his skin was discovered?”

 

Harrison checked over his shoulder at the Fratelli capos calling for his attention. “No. Here’s the write-up,” he said, shoving you some folded papers, “The rest of his body hasn’t been found yet, but the autopsy on his skin should be included. I’ve got to go. Let me know how it goes.”

 

“Hold on,” you said, grabbing his sleeve, “Is anyone in this building besides the Fratellis?”

 

He shook his head. “You’re alone, Viper. Go wild.”

 

After Harrison met with the Fratelli capos, you opened the autopsy report and read them as you ascended the staircase, which creaked and expelled dust with every step. The place was coated in grime. You didn’t want to touch anything; you might get a disease. Stupid fucking building hadn’t been cleaned since it was built, and the prostitution ring functioned out of this place? You wouldn’t want to sit down in here, let alone have sex. You had to stop reading though, since you had to keep an eye on your feet—it would be nice to have a sharps container.

 

So, you called Tom. You pressed it to your ear and brought your collar over your nose so that you could have at least two breaths of fresh air, and he picked up on the third ring.

 

“What’ve you got?”

 

“Did you fucking know that Senator Hernandez was involved with Wright’s prostitution ring? Were we _willingly_ working with someone who’ll—”

 

“Absolutely not,” said Tom, “I didn’t know until the phone call. I didn’t even know about the trafficking before you brought it up. I thought we were dealing with a run-of-the-mill businessman.”

 

He didn’t know until you…? Incredible. “How’d Hernandez’s skin get to his front steps?”

 

“I’m going over the security footage now, and an unmarked car dumped him out of what looks like a burlap sack. Can’t make out anything from the footage otherwise.”

 

“So, Holland,” you said, slowing your pace as you climbed the final few steps to the fourth floor, “What are you expecting me to find? I doubt the gun’s gonna be here, and there’s no chance of the bullet. It’s still in Senator Hernandez’s body, wherever it is.”

 

Tom pulled the received away from his mouth, but his soft _fuck_ still came through. “They haven’t found it? His body, I mean.”

 

“Not a trace. All right, I’m in the room,” you said as you pushed on the door, its weight so heavy it swung open and held without having to prop it open. You kicked the doorstop to the side.

 

Outlines of where furniture had been removed were the only parts of the carpet in a consistent beige. Otherwise, the floor stains ranged from bright red to a murky brown. You strode across it, needles sometimes clinking against your shoes, and you stopped at the edge of the police outline of where they garnered Hernandez had been shot, his head directly at your toes.

 

“What do you expect me to find in here, Holland?” You spun around, making a conscious effort not to breathe too deeply. “The cops have already marked it up. They’ve taken away anything interesting.”

 

“I don’t know,” he said, “but I do know that you have sharper eyes than they do. You’re gonna find something they missed.”

 

“Yeah, right. This place is empty, besides the palpable squalor.”

 

“C’mon, Viper. Take your time.”

 

You cleared your throat. “Fine, but if I contract the fuckin’ plague, or something, I’m infecting you first.”

 

“I’ll take it,” said Tom, and he continued with a change in tone. “Tell me about the autopsy report.”

 

“All right.” You walked around the silhouette to the one window in the room directly behind it. “Skin heavily bruised, especially the face. Nothing that looks like a hand, though.” You pried open the dull, green curtains and pinned them back. “Gunshot the back of his head, a single, long slit down his spine where they must have scooped out his insides.” The window showed no signs of being roughed up, so it must have been unlocked. You reached up to the lock and unlocked it (it shifted easily; the window must have been opened often to let smoke out) before pushing it open and out. “And yeah, there’s the edge of a scuffed shoeprint on the outside of the window, like the report says,” you said, leaning out to see it, “So the shooter did come in this way.”

 

You closed the window and glanced around the empty room. “I don’t know, Holland. I’m can’t give you any new information.”

 

“Anything at all?”

 

“The ceiling’s got graffiti on it. Some kind of mural. Mostly just swirls. Kind of like a clouded sky, but it’s almost dreamlike. Idealised.”

 

“Supposed to be heaven, d’you reckon?”

 

You closed your eyes. “Irony at its most mediocre and transparent.”

 

“Keep going.”

 

“I don’t want to keep you, if you’ve got something else to do. I can give a report later,” you said, breathing through your collar again.

 

“I’d rather hear you process the crime scene in real time,” said Tom, “This is more important than whoever’s bleeding at my feet.”

 

“I hope that’s metaphorical,” you said, and you proceeded too quickly for him to say otherwise. “Hernandez’s outline is almost comical. It’s straight flat without struggle, it looks like. It kind of looks like a bowling pin. Hang on.”

 

“What’s the matter?”

 

“His head’s facing the door.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“And he was shot in the back of the head. His face is bruised—from the fall. He didn’t turn around to see his murderer. That matches with the window being o—why wouldn’t he turn around?” You crouched next to the outline and scanned the carpet for bloodstains that were the senator’s.

 

Tom clicked his tongue. “Was anyone else in the room?”

 

“No,” you said, “He’d been alone for— _his head is facing the door._ ”

 

“The fuck does that mean?” Tom said as you rushed across the room and out into the hallway. You backed up into the doorframe and stared exactly in the senator’s line of vision.

 

“Just give me a moment.” Blank wall. Railing for stairs. No window, no sun, no light. Unless—

 

“What is it?”

 

Darting back into the room, you tested the door a few inches, swinging it back and forth before shutting it.

 

“Have you found something? Viper, answer me. Are you okay?”

 

You cleared your throat again. “’m fine. But, um. He was distracted,” you said in a soft voice into the phone before you lowered it.

 

On the back of the door in the same spray paint as the mural lay an inscription:

 

_Hernandez,_

_though you have run, it is time to collect_

_a viper decides how much venom injects_

 

***

 

“I _told_ you,” you hissed, “I didn’t trust the senator from the very beginning.”

 

“Maccabruno did, and I trust Macca. I won’t have you insulting my consigliere another time today, got it?” Tom raised his eyebrows as he looked up at you from his chair behind his desk.

 

“But now I’m involved in the public sphere. The police are gonna go back and find that couplet, and then there’s gonna be reports all over about who or what the viper bit could mean, and it’s gonna lead back to us. It’s gonna lead to me.” You dragged a chair from the opposite side of his desk to sit next to him, so that there wouldn’t be a barrier between you. “I can’t have that. I can’t be found. I can’t be discovered,” you said, sitting ungracefully and leaning towards him.

 

“You’re right,” said Tom. He kicked a leg to rest his ankle on the opposite knee. “I can’t have you found out. You’re the ace up my sleeve.” He pinched his lower lip between his index finger and thumb.

 

Harrison barged in the door without knocking, the knob banging into the wall, with Maccabruno close behind. “Fucking hell,” he said, and he tossed an open envelope onto Tom’s desk. “Take a look at this.”

 

“It just arrived,” said Maccabruno, as Tom slid his fingers into the envelope and pulled out a polaroid. “Normal mail. Nothing suspicious.”

 

Supporting yourself on Tom’s armrest, you leant close enough to where you could see the picture, your chin initially grazing Tom’s shoulder, and your jaw dropped fully onto it. It was a clear image of you taking off your gloves earlier that afternoon, exiting the building where Senator Hernandez had been killed.

 

“The back, Tom,” said Haz, “Read the fucking back.”

 

Tom flipped it over. _Tom Holland_ , it read, _you have three days until I release this picture and similar. There is no stopping this. Whom I’m giving it to is offering me a ghastly amount of money, Tom, and they’re going to put this to good use. The viper’s got to suffer. Your girl’s going to burn. xx._

 

You blinked. Closed your mouth. Blinked again. Frowned. For some reason, your brain latched onto the kisses at the end, and they had you nodding. An essence of humour.

 

Harrison gripped the edge of the desk. “How do we stop it?”

 

“Give me a minute,” Tom said, rubbing his forehead as he handed the polaroid back to Harrison. His fingers kept going to run through his hair.

 

“I don’t think we can,” said Maccabruno, “He wrote we can’t, and I don’t think we can trace him.”

 

“Unless we want to go through spray paint sales across the city for the past week,” you said, snapping out of your daze.

 

“I’ll get on it,” said Maccabruno.

 

“I was jok—”

 

“No, do it,” said Tom with a wave, his eyes shut. “I can’t fucking believe this.”

 

Harrison pinched the bridge of his nose. “Wait a minute,” he said, “Are we assuming the murder-poet and whoever sent this polaroid are the same person? They aren’t necessarily connected.”

 

“Keep three records of the cases.” Maccabruno flexed his left hand, its joints popping. “One for each incident as they are, and another acting as if they’re done by the same person. Viper,” Maccabruno said, “was anyone around when you were leaving the crime scene?”

 

“No one except the two Fratelli men.”

 

Maccabruno shot Tom and Harrison a look before returning to you. “Really _think_. You may not have noticed—”

 

“Macca,” you said, shutting your eyes tightly, “what colour are my eyes?”

 

After a beat, he stammered that he didn’t know.

 

“That’s right,” you said, still blind, “Yours are hazel. Mr. Osterfield’s are light blue, and Mr. Holland’s are dark brown. You have a bulge in your coat pocket, but you don’t carry a gun normally; that pocket’s where you keep your mentos and pocket edition of the Constitution. Mr. Osterfield’s got scuffs on his shoes from where he keeps tripping into the new rug in the hallway, and Holland usually has grey pet hair on his trousers.” You opened your eyes to their checks if what you said were true. “I admit I’m trying to impress you, but the fact that I know them shouldn’t be impressive. I’m simply on guard. I watch. I _notice._ So, yeah, I know what I saw coming out of the cri—”

 

“ _Viper_ ,” said Tom, leaning against two fingers pressed to his temple, “Can you go five minutes without taking umbrage with Macca? Get a grip. I won’t have infighting among you three. Fucking hell.” Tom pushed away from his desk and rose sluggishly. He took a step towards his liquor cabinet but winced and stopped himself. “Everyone, get out. I need time to think.”

 

Perplexed, Harrison glanced at you before saying, “But Tom—”

 

“Leave. Now,” said Tom, running his hand through his hair as he scrunched up his face. Harrison had his hand on the doorknob when Tom called you back to his desk. He opened the top drawer and retrieved a lace handkerchief, tied off around the middle. He placed it in your palm, and you tugged the string loose to reveal a collection of broken teeth. Your mouth twitched into a half smile.

 

“Is it really that important if this picture gets leaked? I’m afraid I don’t see much of a problem.” Maccabruno shook off Harrison’s grip on his arm and strode back towards Tom, Harrison closely behind. “The city underground knows Haz’s and my faces. And yours. We’ve have our rough times, but so has everyone else in this family. We have our quarrels but walk out regardless, even if we’re bruised and bloody. How is she any different?”

 

Harrison frowned. “He’s got a fair point.”

 

“Got a fair—? _Christ_ ,” said Tom with such vehemence that you clenched your fist around the handkerchief and moved to get out of his way as he rounded the desk. He opened his mouth but closed it when he looked back at you, but he continued at a softer volume. “You are correct,” he said, gesturing stiffly for Maccabruno to sit in one of the intentionally uncomfortable chairs in front of his desk, “She shouldn’t be any different. Haz, you, and I— _hopefully_ —all think of her as the same as us.” Tom glanced at you again before glaring at Macca down his nose. “But we can’t guarantee our opponents will. They’re gonna look at her and see some _chick_ that I’ve hired out of sentiment. They’re gonna look at her and see an easy way to me.”

 

While Harrison inched over to you to give you some shred of solidarity, Tom put his foot on the edge of the seat of Maccabruno’s chair, making him scoot over, and Tom leant into his face, resting his arms on his raised knee. “So, they know about the Viper. Fine. Gives them another reason to be on edge around me. But say everyone knows she’s a woman—they don’t take her seriously and easy to spot. She’s less of a person and more of a target.”

 

Harrison nudged your arm, and you inhaled sharply. He nodded slightly at you, and you returned it. You forced yourself to release the tension from your jaw and stopped clenching your fists. The roots of the molars had been digging into your palm.

 

“Not to mention,” Tom said as he took the end of Maccabruno’s tie and flipped it over his shoulder, “Not a one of them can impregnate you or cut off your clitoris. They can hurt her in ways they can’t hurt you. Understand yet?”

 

Maccabruno’s brow was furrowed, but he stared squarely at Tom’s lapel pocket. “Yes, sir.”

 

“Good job. And I need you to leave my office so that I can have the time to _fucking_ think about how I’m gonna fix this. I can’t lose this one,” Tom said, jerking his head in your direction and crossing his arms, “due to negligence or personal error. I need her around. No one else can do what she does.”

 

After months of working for him, there’s validation, finally. Nice to hear you’re appreciated, but you’d rather it not be like this. For a moment, you thought about Tom saying the same things to you, but in private on one of your late nights, where you’re alone and both sleep-deprived and poring over evidence and files, and he’s got his hair all ruffled and a soft shine in his eyes, and he’s leaning close to you, body heat melding with your own, and he says in a low breath into your ear that he needs you—okay, slow down, girl. Save that for the shower. Remember these words forever, though; write them down—Tom may never say anything this positive about you again. Especially with what you’re about to say.

 

“Holland,” you said, stepping forward, “I might have something.”

 

He turned towards you, hands resting on his hips and his white shirt straining against his chest. “Something about stopping this guy releasing your information?”

 

“Yeah,” you said, “We release it first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ad quod damnum: according to the harm; the punishment must fit the crime.


	4. Pactum de non Cedendo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: violence, swears, the law, gore, violence, murder.
> 
> Summary: You’ve heard not to cross the streams. Too late. You wish your life could go continuously uphill for, like, two minutes.

_All evidence of humanity has been erased. Thus, all identifying vocal quirks, filler words, and dialogue not imperative to belaying information have been elided._

_…_

**_Viper:_ ** _Let’s say I’m involved with…underground justice._

**_Epiales:_ ** _A vigilante?_

**_Viper:_ ** _No. What I personally do is not technically illegal. I am the law, direct and simple, free of corruption to the best of my abilities. You may recall my work in the Laurens case?_

**_Epiales:_ ** _I made the connection. Clever thinking on your part._

**_Viper:_ ** _Your compliments have gravitas. Thank you very much._

**_Epiales:_ ** _How are you involved in Hernandez’s murder?_

**_Viper:_ ** _I met the man once several months ago, and now, Hernandez’s murderer is intrigued by my involvement. Our connection is feeble: he signed a document concerning a donation in my presence._

**_Epiales:_ ** _Are you at liberty to say what the donation was for?_

**_Viper:_ ** _It’s nothing noteworthy. Ultimately, it went to keeping our headquarters intact._

**_Epiales:_ ** _What concerns do you have about this case proceeding from this point?_

**_Viper:_ ** _Obviously the plans of this murderer. I have reason to suspect that certain crimes that have come my way are all by this same person. I believe a pattern will emerge and that the culprit will make a mistake._

**_Epiales:_ ** _And this is the person that’s threatened you to release pictures?_

**_Viper:_ ** _I want to assume, but it’s a complicated situation. He’s made me realise I can’t afford to hide in the shadows any more, and moreover, I don’t need to. I know what I’ve gotten into, and I’m not afraid. When this guy makes his next move, let him know that my walls are fortified._

**_Epiales:_ ** _A woman like you can’t afford to be caught off guard._

**_Viper:_ ** _That’s true. It’s a jungle out there._

**_Epiales:_ ** _Tell me how being a woman affects your status in your work._

 

 

The article went on, and Tom let out a low whistle and turned from the laptop. He opened his mouth to speak, but it morphed into a smile as he shook his head. “Oh, this,” he said, spinning his chair to look up at you, “This is beautiful.”

 

Releasing your grip on the back of his chair when he spun, you flexed your fingers before making a fist and holding it behind your back. “You think so?”

 

“I know so,” he said, “How the fuck did you manage an interview with Epiales? No one can find him.”

 

Well, when you’re interviewing yourself, you can do it in bed, with your cat on your feet and reruns playing in the background. You made your Epiales self have a slightly more formal voice than your Viper voice, although you made both of yourselves look good. And it was all too easy. “It was more of a stroke of luck than anything,” you said, “About a week ago, I received a burner phone in the mail. No return address. Nothing was on the phone except for one phone number, and it was labelled _nightmare_.”

 

Tom closed the laptop and slipped it into the sleeve. “And he just picked up?”

 

“Not exactly.” You started sweeping papers into folders and putting them through the three-prongs. “It was text-to-speech. I never heard Epiales’s voice. It was a slow interview, but it was fascinating.”

 

“How much did you reveal about the mob?”

 

“Just what you saw. The mob is never mentioned. There’s a suggestion that I work for someone, but I’m cautiously vague about it.”

 

“You’d better not have slipped up.”

 

“I was careful, I swear.”

 

Tom stood, stretched, and cricked his back, and you heard the pop. He relaxed, his shoulders slumping before shaking himself and rolling them back. More pops. “I’ll trust you for now. Whatever the case, this… We couldn’t’ve chosen a better way to take away the power from the photographer. By releasing your information ourselves, his giving it to his client means nothing.” He sighed and accepted the files you handed him. “I’m headed over to Hernandez’s house now. The capos are reporting Isadora’s getting restless and is trying to get friendly with some of them. The less she knows, the better.”

 

You scratched out the label on a file and scribbled in a new one. “It shouldn’t take nine men to guard the kid.”

 

“She’s trying to leave the house. Keeps talking about practising for a tennis tournament coming up.” He slid the folders into a desk drawer, took out a small key, and locked it.

 

“She’s got to be tired of being cooped up, _and_ her dad was just murdered. Give her a break, Holland,” you said, shoving the files in your rucksack and zipping it up.

 

Tom shot you a look and grabbed his suit jacket off the back of his chair. “Well, maybe you can come check out the setup tomorrow. To be honest,” he said, slipping an arm in a sleeve, “it’s not as great as I’d like it. Harry and Sam couldn’t come into the city to monitor her because of their stupid fucking plant-geneticist-slash-bioprocessing-engineer calling them upstate. I fucking _loathe_ that they’re involved with that shit. Useless.” He pulled his jacket on fully and began to button it from the bottom. “Imagine saying no to _me._ ”

 

A montage of scenarios flashed across your brain, mostly involving being tied to a bed. “I’d rather not.” Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you said, “Is that why you don’t want me to meet them?”

 

Tom tilted his head and sucked in through his teeth. “The less you know about my family, the better.”

 

“Understandable.” You did _not_ understand. You watched this guy murder people on a regular basis, so what could be so bad about his family? “All right. I’m ready. Let’s go see Isadora.”

 

“What? No,” said Tom, frowning, “You’ve stayed way past overtime tonight. Go on home.”

 

“So have you.” You checked your phone and slid it back into its pouch on your belt. “It’s two in the morning. Let’s go. Quick check. In and out.”

 

“Viper,” he said softly, raising his eyebrows, “You need rest. Go home. Come with me to Hernandez’s house tomorrow.”

 

Sighing, you rubbed at your hairline. Currently, you were motivated almost equally by thirst for justice and thirst for Tom, and usually, when Tom outweighed the justice, it was time to quit. Fuck. “So long as you get some sleep soon, too.”

 

***

 

“Yeah, Ms. Pham. I’ve been in contact with the national park. They should be sending someone along with the diamond soon.” Hastily taking your feet off your desk, you held up a finger to Haz, who slammed the door to your shitty office. “Still a bit of processing to do, but soon. Yes, ma’am. The next time I can be at the museum is on Thursday morning. Do you want me to come to your house before then? Right.” You scribbled down the details on your legal pad. “Biscotti. Got it. Thank you. Goodbye. No, it’s taken care of. Bye.” You hung up and tossed your phone next to your potted cactus. “What brings you to Siberia, Mr. Osterfield?”

 

“Cut the jokes. Come downstairs, _now._ There’s a car waiting.” Harrison beckoned for you to follow him and left before you could even stand.

 

“What’s going on?” you asked, slightly out of breath when you caught up to him, holding the doors to the elevator open.

 

“We’ve got to get to Hernandez’s before the police,” said Harrison, jamming the elevator button repeatedly, “There was a distress call, and it’s been silenced.”

 

***

 

At your recommendation, Haz passed around the bag of latex gloves before all of you entered the Hernandez house. Haz, Tom, Maccabruno, and you stood cramped together on the step to the back door as you worked the rubber up your fingers and smoothed it out. Macca meticulously took note of the surroundings, ensuring no one saw the four strangers on the back step of a recently murdered politician, and as Haz and Tom drew their guns, you dug out your evidence notebook.

 

You were garnering a lot of notebooks.

 

Maccabruno picked the lock and eased the door open; you winced at the creak of the door hinge in the silence. Tom crept in first with Harrison closely behind. Catching your eye, Macca jerked his head in Harrison’s direction, meaning for you to stay behind in case an active threat lingered. Nodding once, you followed Haz and Tom through cosily cluttered, yellow hallways and a spacious kitchen straight out of a 90s catalog, but the kitchen tile turning into living room carpet had Tom holding out his arm to stop before you could see it.

 

Tom tilted his head to listen, and after a moment, the house settled. He relaxed his arm and moved forward.

 

You rounded the doorframe, busy opening your notebook, and when you looked up, you stopped in your tracks, your heels sinking into the carpet.

 

Tom, Haz, and Macca spread across the blood drenched carpet. Their shoes squelched with each step. Fucking every surface had some blood; it was drizzling off the coffee table, seeping into the couch cushions, running down walls—how did it get on the ceiling? There was fucking _blood_ dripping from the ceiling; oh, my God.

 

You bit the inside of your thumb, tasted the latex, and promptly lowered your hand. Haz was already getting blood sample and saying, “Did a blood bank fucking explode in here?”

 

“It’s better than turning someone inside out,” said Tom, and he crossed his arms, his gun poking out from underneath his bicep.

 

Get over it. Pull yourself together. You have work to do. “Where the fuck is Isadora?” Her portrait above the fireplace had been splattered.

 

“Right. Harrison, go check upstairs for her. I don’t think we’ll find her down here,” said Tom, taking the blood samples and beckoning with a finger for you.

 

“Yeah, sure,” you said, and you, not wanting to walk the wet path they had taken, began to round the couch—at which point you covered your mouth with your hand, and—latex, you really should stop touching your face at a crime scene—there lay the bodies of the men stationed to look after Isadora Hernandez.

 

Tom and Maccabruno jogged over, both of them on the other side of the neat line of corpses, all arranged with their arms crossed over their chests—two who had been wearing hats had them over their faces.

 

“Okay, something’s fucky,” you said, “Their clothes are fucking immaculate.”

 

“Macca, check out the hats. Viper,” said Tom, nodding at you, and he crouched to flip the body closest to him over. He ran two gloved fingers over the shoulder blade. “This looks like blood from the carpet. I can’t see any wound, can you?”

 

Maccabruno shook his head, his hand grasping the first hat like a claw, revealing an unharmed face, like the rest.

 

On your end, you bent to look at the capo. He was young. Callow, even. What was he doing in the mob? You checked out his hands—oh, no callouses, square-trimmed fingernails, long palms and fingers, right hand muscles more developed than the left—usually an office boy. Maybe he’s one of the accountants for Osseous on floor ten—oh, fuck, he _was_. You glanced at the rest of the men—they were field capos; maybe this kid was here for logistics. You didn’t know.

 

And that struck you. Why didn’t you know? You could’ve kept him from being here. He might be at home and content if you had stepped in.

 

“I don’t think this blood is theirs,” Tom said, turning the body back over, “There are splatters that look too precise. There’s too fucking much of it.”

 

“Harrison may have been right about the blood bank,” said Maccabruno, returning the hats to their faces.

 

Moving up to the kid’s face, you frowned. A peaceful, blank expression in death. Head tilted back slightly. Bad eyebrows—no, stop that. His nose was crooked, but that wasn’t from this; this was ol—you scanned his jawline. Lots of tension there. Like it had…been forcefully clamped shut.

 

“I want you to check local blood banks when we get out of here,” Tom said, standing, “See if anyone’s taken out a surplus at once or over a few months.” He swivelled around. “Seems like it’s all the same age and hasn’t darkened much.”

 

“Probably well refrigerated then,” Macca was saying as he jotted down instructions.

 

You squeezed his lips to pucker them, loosening his jaw enough for you to pry it open. “Holland,” you said, “I have something.”

 

Tom’s eyes widened, and he rushed to stoop next to you once you pulled a strange, dead grass out of the kid’s mouth. “What is that?”

 

“No idea,” you said, looking to Harrison as he came downstairs.

 

“Haz, we need a sample bag,” Tom said, and he shifted to the next body in line and forced its mouth open. He raised his eyebrows at you when he retrieved the same grass.

 

Harrison gave you a sample container and joined you in popping open mouths, all of which had the plant inside. You got a few strands from each of them, and as you packed away the bags, you said, “Holland, remind me how many men you sent down here?”

 

“Nine,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning back onto his haunches next to you, and then he got it and grimaced. “We’re never mentioning again how long it took me to notice that there were eight bodies.”

 

Haz dragged Macca out of the room to look for the ninth before Tom could even issue the order. Gun drawn, Tom move to stand over you in case, his legs so close to your shoulders that you could grasp at a touch of body heat coming from him. Your tongue grew heavy in your mouth.

 

Would it be so bad to ask him to hang out?

 

Yes, oh, my God. You can’t ask a mob boss to _hang out._

 

Regardless, theoretically, it wasn’t ideal to date someone in the workplace, especially one’s supervisor, particularly when that individual could have your teeth ripped out if you dump him—but who would dump him?

 

Besides the workplace rule, there are a couple of things wrong with the possibility of being romantically involved. 1) Tom Holland has a stick up his ass. 2) He’s never shown any potential romantic interest in anyone, to the best of your knowledge. 3) The mob persona you’ve assumed also has a stick up her ass, so 3a) you probably were not the most attractive person in his life, 3b) assuming he felt emotions of the mushy sort.

 

Wait! Holy fuck! It’s been so long that it’s slipped your mind; when he first met you, he was, like, _aggressively_ flirtatious. But so were you. That wasn’t how you’ve been presenting yourself since, but that flash, the hint of how chill you really were ( _you were so chill; you swore. You were the chillest person ever to exist. Ice. Cold._ ) could have lingered in the forefront of Tom’s consciousness.

 

If you could concentrate, you might save a life. Focus.

 

The corner of the kid’s high collar that poked out of under his coat, and you pulled on it, peeling it from his skin with a bloodstain soaked into it. You pushed his chin to the side so that you could get a better look.

 

“Holland,” you said, looking up at him, and you were startled for a moment by his dark eyes, how he was giving you all of his attention. You cleared your throat. “I unearthed a wound on his neck, but it’s not enough to have killed him. Cut by a thin blade. Shaped like a backwards _L._ ”

 

You and Tom followed the procedure for the rest and discovered they had similar cuts in different shapes—this one three sides of a square, another a capital gamma, another still a proper _L._ You were writing them down hastily when Harrison dragged a terrified capo into the living room, this one bloodstained.

 

“He says the attacker locked him in a closet and posed as him for a few hours,” Maccabruno was saying, typing on his phone in the doorframe.

 

The capo looked at Haz and back at you and Tom. “I—I think he chose me because of how I was able to talk to Isadora. We’re about the same age, so.”

 

“Did you hear him speak?” Tom asked.

 

“No,” he said, “and I didn’t hear any of—” He caught sight of the line of bodies, and he bit the inside of his wrist. “Shit. You’re not gonna put me to the gallows, are you?”

 

“Absolutely not,” said Tom, “You did nothing wrong.” He slid his gun into his holster and rested his fists on his hips. “We’re gonna take you to the nearest safe house and get you patched up. Then you’re taking a while off. You’re not in trouble,” said Tom, and he stepped closer to the sweaty man (he qualified as a man, you supposed, but he was still younger than you) and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s to keep you safe. If you can get out of the city for a while, that’d be even better.”

 

“You’re the only witness to whoever this murderer is,” said Harrison, “so you’re a mark.”

 

“Now, I know you’re shaken,” said Tom, nodding to Haz and guiding the capo out of the room, “but I’m gonna need you to report everything you can recall about what’s happened.”

 

The Hollands had a safe house not too many blocks away, and the hostess welcomed you in furtively, giving you something to drink before joining Harrison in sanitising the capo’s wounds in the spare bedroom.

 

You sat on the kitchen counter with glazed eyes as you drank your capri-sun. Macca and Tom sat across from each other at a table, the former looking into blood banks on his phone and the latter lost in thought.

 

Numb.

 

The blood room was enough for today. For the week. You wanted to go home. Sighing, you kicked off you heels, let them clack to the floor, and opened your notebook. The sooner you made progress on this incident, the sooner you could go home.

 

Tom snapped out of it at your movement and drew his hand away form his mouth. After rolling up his sleeves, he leaned against the counter and watched you try to decipher the symbols cut into their necks. The gentle rise and fall of his chest meant he was mostly calm, at least. He’s seen worse.

 

Haz and the owner of the house eventually came back in, saying the kid was clean and sleeping, and she began to cook dinner, Harrison cutting up vegetables for her. Tom shifted closer to you to get out of their way, but he wouldn’t touch you, not even grazing your sleeve. Why wouldn’t he touch you?

 

Plus, it was impossible to focus on these symbols, anyway. They weren’t letters or anything, just four right angles in different directions and four squares missing a different side each. Feeling stupid under Tom’s close scrutiny, you drew them in order of what direction they were facing and then tried to arrange them in a flower, because, you know. It looked like you were doing something, and you were braindead.

 

“Hey, that’s a hashtag,” Tom said, pointing at the flower.

 

“Yes,” you said, noticing it for the first time, “I tried, I guess. There are only so many shapes you can make out of eight partial squares.”

 

Tom nodded, running his tongue over his lower lip and staring at the paper. Furrowing his brow, he snapped his head towards you. “Nine.”

 

“Eight,” you said.

 

“Nine.” He traced the square made by the centre of the hashtag.

 

“But that,” you said, “Fuck.” You jumped off the counter and ran with Tom down the hallway, through the guest bathroom and into the bedroom, bursting through the door.

 

Harrison and Maccabruno rushed in in time to see Tom turn away from the bed and cover his eyes with his palm and you set your jaw and shut your eyes tight.

 

The window stood open, curtains wafting in the evening breeze, and the capo’s head lay at the foot of the bed, its eyes still open and a square carved into its throat.

 

You blinked and felt a lump grow in your own throat. “There’s…there’s something in his mouth.”

 

Tom got there before you did and pulled out a crumpled note.

 

_T.H. and V. alone to retrieve Isadora at the M.A.S. warehouse tonight 0100 hrs. $250,000._

It was the same handwriting as on the back of the photograph, and you had never been gladder to see that little _V_ instead of your real initials.

 

***

 

You took a swig out of your flask—cold hot chocolate, a marshmallow mess from being shaken all day.

 

“I don’t want you to come in tomorrow,” said Tom from the driver’s seat, “What you’ve seen today is too much for one day. You probably should rest your brain.”

 

You swallowed thickly. “You worried about what content I consume, Holland? I’m gonna come in _even harder_ tomorrow.” The innuendo struck you, and you fastened your flask back into its clasp.

 

“I mean it,” said Tom, putting the car into park outside the unkempt warehouse. He turned off the brights and shifted his torso towards you. “If you don’t get some sleep soon, you’re gonna make yourself sick.”

 

“Pot calling the kettle black,” you said. You buttoned your blazer underneath the seatbelt. “I’m not gonna break until you do.”

 

Tom shut his eyes tightly, wincing. “It’s not about breaking or showing weakness.”

 

“You’re goddamn right.” You unbuckled your seatbelt, and then you reached over to unbuckle Tom’s. He had a moment of incredulity but let his arm slip through it. “What do you have to do at work that you don’t want me there for?”

 

Tom looked at his lap, pinched the crease in his trouser pants, and rested a tight fist on his knee. “I’ve got an old friend coming in… _She_ and Haz are working on something for me.”

 

“Are you expecting me to feel threatened by another woman? What kind of freak do you take me for?” Your head snapped towards the warehouse’s second storey, where a light had appeared. “The air’s too thick with testosterone where we work. I’m grateful for any sort of empathy for that. What’s her name? Then we’d better get going.”

 

“Zendaya,” said Tom, twisting himself to reach the ransom suitcase in the back seat, “I’m sending her out into the city with Harrison to look for any parts of this case that we might be missing.” He unlocked the car door and opened it. “We might only be getting the bigger events,” he said to you over the roof of the car.

 

“Makes sense,” you said, shutting the passenger door, “Anyone else I should know about?”

 

 “My mate Jacob is coming to look for similarities between this case and past ones. See if this guy’s had any practise before executing this one.”

 

“Poor choice of verb,” you said, noting his widening gait as he rounded the car to you, “You ready?”

 

He leant in closer and spoke quietly, his eyes lowering to your hips. “Can you draw your knife easily?” His dark eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks.

 

After a beat, you said that you could. That idiot needed to stop looking at you before doing public shit. You’re gonna get distracted by thinking about his fuckin’ eyelashes. They’re so long, you know? You were a little (read: a lottle) envious. And they weren’t exactly the colour of his hair; they were smoky and more than a little delicate—hello. You have work to do.

 

Tom’s grip on the suitcase handle tightened until his knuckles whitened when you entered the middle clearing of the warehouse, and the light on the second storey had been turned off. Startled, you jolted closer to him, your blazer cuff brushing against his sleeve. The thirty following seconds in the utter darkness slowed to a stop when Tom moved his hand, just barely, to tap his knuckle against the back of your hand, a sharp spark of reassurance that had you inhaling harshly when he dragged his knuckle up a few inches to your wrist. At that, he withdrew, and a light overhead flickered on.

 

Underneath it Isadora Hernandez was gagged and in the grip of a bulkily armoured, wholly masked figure holding a gun to her ear.

 

“If you are not alone, you will not leave alive,” said the kidnapper. He spoke through a heavily altered vocoder, leaving his voice stentorian and robotic.

 

“It’s just the two of us,” said Tom, his voice even but careful stare unyielding, “What do you want?”

 

He changed his grip on Isadora, his bullet-proof armour shifting noisily but not enough to reveal any skin. This man was a completely unidentifiable ghost. “What do _you_ want, Tom Holland?”

 

“I want you to return Isadora Hernandez to me unharmed.”

 

“What do you _want_ , Tom?” He pressed the barrel farther into Isadora’s ear. “You’re here because it’s the right thing to do. You don’t actually care about this girl and whether or not she lives. Dozens of people under your jurisdiction suffer and die every day, whether it’s deserved or not.”

 

“Just so,” said Tom.

 

Get to the point. Isadora wants this all to be over, and so did you. Pick it up, fellows. You supposed this was what happened when you loosened egos unmitigated.

 

“You want confirmation of crime? Fine. I’m the one you should get credit to for your main investigation right now. The senator, the photographs. Beheading your men. It’s just me serving up justice, my dude.” He tilted his covered head and yanked Isadora’s hair, tilting her head in the same way. “And Viper, my dear, you’re in for it. You are no longer safe. I’m tracking you down, and I’m gonna treat you to everything you want.”

 

“How kind,” you said with no emotion, “The first thing I want is Isadora, unharmed.”

 

“Suitcase first,” he said, putting his finger on the trigger.

 

With his other hand raised, Tom bent to slide the suitcase across the floor. It fell short of the kidnapper by about eight feet. Silence. How embarrassing. Does Tom go up and kick it towards him, or does the kidnapper walk towards it?

 

Tonight, option two is chosen. The kidnapper put his boot on the top of the suitcase before prying it open to check its contents. It clicked shut when he kicked it behind him, and he released his grip around Isadora’s neck, his handprint fading back to her natural skin colour.

 

“All right, then, Isabella.” He took the barrel out of her ear and aimed it at you and Tom. “You skedaddle towards them, got it? Nice and slow, now.”

 

Isadora, gagged with her hands tied behind her back, trembled in the first few steps towards you. She looked over her shoulder towards her kidnapper, who gestured with the gun for her to go on. You held your breath next to a stock-still Tom, slightly hunched and stance wide, weight on the balls of his feet—you frowned; he was waiting for something to go wrong.

 

But the kidnapper lowered his gun and told Isadora to go, and she’s crying as she runs to you, crying as he raised his gun again and shot her in the back of her head.

 

He bolted out of the back door as Isadora bled out onto the concrete floor in rivulets. You rushed to kneel at her side and stood again when you stepped in blood. You tried to garner any reaction from her, but her eyes had turned glassy and her chest had stilled.

 

You stooped to close her eyes as Tom barked instructions to mobilise—apparently you hadn’t come alone; capos waited outside and now were in pursuit; why didn’t he tell you? Either way. You ripped your knife from your belt and moved to run after the kidnapper, but Tom caught you by the waist before you could take more than two steps.

 

“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said with a growl, his cold hands too tight on your waist and keeping you from struggling, “There’s only going to be one more death tonight.”

 

Rolling your shoulders back, you took a deep breath but turned your head to the side and refused to look at him, even when he squeezed your waist for you to do so. When the warehouse light burned out, Tom let out a heated groan against your exposed neck, and there in the darkness the two of you stood, waiting for a gunshot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pactum de non cedendo: agreement not to yield.


End file.
